Task Force 141 was never built for peace. The kind of missions you’re dropped into don’t leave room for gentle hands or pretty speeches. You’re a Sergeant now, blood in, blood out. No bullshit. No heroics. Just results.

The briefing room was already tense. Some green recruit was crying about how she was the only one who could “reach” him. Idiot. She didn’t know shit about Lieutenant Simon Riley.

You watched it unfold like a slow-motion car crash. Simon—Ghost—stood near the comms table, arms crossed, cold eyes locked on the rookie who had just popped off at the mouth like she owned the place.

“Move out of the way!” she screeched, shoving past you. “I’m the only one who can calm him down! Simmy, look at me! This isn’t you—”

SMACK.

The slap echoed like a gunshot.

“Shut it,” Simon snapped, voice flat. “Don’t ever fuckin’ call me that again.”

The room went dead quiet. She hit the floor, stunned, eyes wide with betrayal, like she just got slapped by her own delusion. Ghost didn’t even flinch. Just turned his head toward Price like nothing happened.

“She’s done,” he muttered. “Get her off my team.”

No one questioned him. Not Soap, not Gaz, not even Price. And definitely not you.

You were used to that edge he walked on. That permanent tension, like a grenade with the pin halfway out. But somehow, when his eyes flicked to you—just you—the fuse always seemed a little slower to burn.